Page 24 of Against The Rules

Sighing, she fishes a phone out of the pocket of her dress, the motion tugging the fabric over her breasts. Fuck, she’s so hot.

I wish I hadn’t agreed to not have sex with her. My chopsticks falter on a piece of sushi and it slips from my grip, sliding back onto the plastic platter with a plop.

She doesn’t notice though, nope. Her forehead’s screwed up, lips pursed adorably as she flicks her finger across the screen, muttering quietly to herself.

I can’t help grinning, fishing the dropped sushi off the platter and popping it in my mouth.

For some reason, she actually cares what I think about her art. She wants me to like it. Why else would she look so stressed?

It’s fucking cute.

I don’t know shit about art, but I hope I like whatever she’s about to show me. I want to like it. I like her.

It hits me like a ton of bricks, then, and I stare at her. Fear and wonder war inside me, because yeah, I knew I liked her, knew I wanted to prove I wasn’t a fuck-up, but I… really do like her. I want this to work, this stupid marriage we drunkenly dove into.

Or maybe I’m just being an idiot. Maybe I’m hangry.

A few taps later, she hands me her phone, her even white teeth nibbling her lower lip.

I want to tell her it’s going to be okay, that she shouldn’t look so worried, but I’m still too shocked by the depth of my want for her.

“Well?” she prompts, and I realize I’ve been staring at her instead of the art on the screen she’s chosen to share with me.

“How many other people have seen this?” I ask slowly, scrolling through the album. It’s a dreamy landscape of soft pastels and curly clouds and tiny, painstaking stars and cityscapes rendered in clearly loving detail. I’m seeing the world through Savannah’s eyes, and I don’t want to look away.

Her art is like magic.

“Is it bad?” she asks instead, the anxiety clear in her voice.

I tear my gaze away from the array of art on her phone and stare instead at the living masterpiece in front of me.

“Perfect,” I say in a low voice, and I’m not sure if I’m talking about her or her work.

Both.

Her shoulders sag, and a huge sigh gusts from her lips, relief evident across every tight line of her body.

She cares about my opinion.

I’m not sure if anyone really ever has.

“You seem surprised,” I make myself say, because if I don’t fucking say something I’m going to be the loser staring at her over a platter full of raw fish.

“I am,” she says, that stunning grin creeping over her face. “Pleasantly surprised.” She gives a little shake of her head, and a strand of damp hair falls over her forehead.

My hand flexes. I want to push it behind her ear.

I pick up more sushi instead, and she bats the hair out of her eyes.

“Why? Your work…” I stumble over the words, trying and failing to find the right ones. God, I always thought I was fucking smooth. This woman is putting an end to that myth, and real fast, too. “It’s really great. A good investment,” I add stupidly.

She doesn’t seem pissed at my classification of it, though, instead smiling even bigger as she sifts through her salad. “I’m really glad you think so.” A forkful of greens disappears into her mouth, and I watch it too avidly.

I push the sushi towards her, wanting her to eat more, worried she’s not going to be full if she only eats that tiny ginger-dressed salad.

“Who wouldn’t think so?” I shrug, my chest sore from today’s workout, satisfaction rippling through me as she helps herself to some maki. “I don’t know much about art, but that’s nice. It’s uh,” I fight for the right word as she scrutinizes me, chewing thoughtfully. “It’s got a great aesthetic. For social media.”

That, at least, I know something about. Branding myself is one thing I can do, and do pretty well. Sure, I’ve got the party boy personality between my brother and me, but it’s netted me a lot of endorsement deals.

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